


So. Damn. Cute.

by silvrhuntress



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Episode: s02e09 Croatoan, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvrhuntress/pseuds/silvrhuntress





	So. Damn. Cute.

They’re getting the hell out of Rivergrove, tension thick between them, music blasting, when it happens.

One minute, Dean’s got the Impala screaming out onto the main street, tires squealing as she rounds the curve, the body listing with all the grace of a nuclear sub running at 125% power. The next, he’s swerving the Impala to a rough stop in the middle of the lane beside a generic dark blue Japanese import and a camper truck that had been new about fifteen years ago.

“Stay here,” he orders, leaving the engine running as his right hand goes to the gun on the seat beside him, left hand to the car door.

“Dean –”

But it’s too late. Dean’s gone, running to the cover on the other side of the street: a pickup truck that’s parked at an angle almost blocking that side of the road, and Sam curses their luck, because the pickup’s loaded with compressed gas cylinders and plastered with signs declaring the contents flammable and explosive.

Leave it to the Winchesters to find the means to blow past the roadblock at the end of the town _after_ the threat is apparently gone.

 _Still, at least Dean’s being _careful_ , checking both sides of the street before running along the truck, glancing into the cab, then jumping up onto a little bench where tourists could sit and rest between antique stores. He takes two running steps along the bench and Sam sees the gun isn’t in his hands anymore, because he’s reaching –_

For the low branch of a nearby tree?

 _Lookout,_ is Sam’s first thought, though a quick check of the streets – abandoned cars, quaint little shops and cafes, and not much else – tells him there’s not much to actually see. _Sniper,_ is his second thought, but that’s even less rational, because there doesn’t seem to be anyone to shoot.

And if Dean’s hiding in a tree, looking to snipe someone, that’d mean he’s left Sam on the ground to be bait.

Which... he wouldn’t do.

Right?

Or maybe he thinks Sam really _isn’t_ immune to the virus that could be crawling through his blood right now, only slower, stealthier than it had affected the others. His gut gives a little flip and he looked up from his hands to the tree again –

And gets a great view of Dean’s ass, under tight and faded jeans, as he climbed through the branches.

He looks away – he sees a little _too_ much of some things in a life lived practically attached to his brother’s hip – and goes back to checking the street, because the alternative is to watch his brother randomly climbing a tree in a town that’s now apparently deserted but had, until just an hour or two ago, been filled with homicidal demonic maniacs, and the only answer that really comes to Sam’s mind is that _Dean_ is possessed.

A huge _crack!_ brings him out of his worry with a reaction John Winchester had programmed into both his sons long, long ago. Sam drops below the level of the dash, gets his shotgun (breathing a sigh of relief that he’d loaded it with deer slugs, meant for stopping power), and sits back up carefully, looking for the shooter –

A soft _whump_ snaps his gaze right across the street to the tree where Dean is – or _was_ , because the tree isn’t there. It’s crashed down, right onto the truck, and gas cylinders are crashing out through the old wooden rails forming the sides of the truck, revealing a welding cart, which tells Sam what’s inside those cylinders that are now spinning on the streets, valves snapped off, spitting out metal-on-asphalt sparks and about a second from turning themselves into flaming missiles –

 _ _“Dean!”_ he screams, yanking his door open, throwing down the shotgun. He gets one foot out before he spots Dean bodily throwing himself out of the remains of the tree, scrambling free of the truck, running straight for the Impala as one of the cylinders finally blows._

Sam ducks – it’s one of those reflexive human reactions when a truly _massive_ fireball suddenly fills the air in front of your eyes – and grief rips through him. When he gets back up, everything is orange and smoky black and he yells Dean’s name again –

Somehow, Dean is _there_ , rolling on the ground, putting out the fire clinging to him. Thanking god that it was gas and not liquid in those cylinders, Sam doesn’t stop to think; he rushes out his side of the Impala, runs around the front of the still-purring engine, and gets to Dean.

“I’m all right!” Dean gasps out, not letting Sam help him up, but instead shoving something small and soft into Sam’s hands. Sam doesn’t even pay attention, except to grab it, because Dean is clearly _not_ all right; his jacket’s burned clear through in some places, the ends of his hair are crisped, and when he gets to his knees, his T-shirt is just spotted with scorch marks and burn holes.

This isn’t the time for first aid, though Sam can see the reddening, blistering skin through the holes. He transfers his little burden to one hand and goes to reach for Dean’s arm when _fangs_ sink into his index finger.

“Ow! Fuck!” he curses, grip tightening even more, and the thing _squeals_ and bites down harder. He doesn’t drop it because Dean gave it to him and doesn’t take his eyes off the much greater threat of the nearest gas cylinder, but Dean’s got _a lot_ of explaining to do, assuming they don’t end up turned into s’mores before this is all over.

They finally regain their balance as the next cylinder blows, and for once God is apparently on their side, because it’s on the other side of the street. Glass and wood shatter with the third explosion, and God’s turned away again, because the debris rains down around them as they make it to the Impala. There’s a brief scuffle at the door, but Dean wins – he almost always does, when it comes to driving – and Sam relents. He runs around to the passenger side and throws himself in. They slam the doors, Dean throws the Impala into reverse, and then they’re driving away from a street that went from Mayberry to Baghdad in under five minutes.

“Gimme him,” Dean orders, holding out a dirty hand, scratched from branches and blistered from heat.

Sam looks down at the _thing_ mauling his finger and lets go in shock because _it’s a kitten_ , with grey fur that’s standing on end and huge eyes wide with ferocity.

Dean snatches it right off Sam’s lap, steering one-handed as he pulls onto a side street, rushing away from the conflagration blackening the sky in the rear view mirror. The kitten goes from spitting and yowling to purring like a jet engine turbine.

“Dean, what the _hell_? Is it –”

He stops himself before he can say anything stupid, like ‘possessed’ or ‘a demon’ because it’s _a kitten_ , and he’s never read lore about kittens being possessed. And he doesn’t think a shifter or skinwalker can make itself so small – laws of conservation of mass and all – so he just fumbles his way into silence.

The kitten sinks claws into Dean’s jacket and climbs up, so small and light that it doesn’t even tug the jacket against his burns. It nestles into the warmth of Dean’s neck and curls up there into a ball barely the size of Sam’s fist.

“What’s it fuckin’ look like, bitch?” Dean challenges in a fit of testosterone that doesn’t quite manage to balance out the kitten cuddled up under his right ear.

Sam drags his eyes away from the impossible sight. As blood drips from his stinging index finger, he looks into the side mirror, and sees the town well and truly ablaze.


End file.
